Public Flashback
by grannysknitting
Summary: Donovan touches the Wrong Shoulder and triggers a very unpleasant response. Hurt/Comfort, established relationship, and Anderson has a clue...


**Public Flash Back**

AN – set after 'Not Quite Annoyance'. Hurt/Comfort ahoy!

After that first, private flashback, and the repercussions that so disordered their lives, Sherlock became something of a fanatic when it came to knowing the weather. They had three more thunderstorms after that first flashback, one during the day, two at night, but John had not so much as twitched for the entirety of the storm. Sherlock had been more of a wreck than his partner, though he _certainly_ didn't object to John's method of soothing him, which involved what John called TLC.

As the months passed, Sherlock began to consider that the danger had passed. John no longer slept in the same room as his gun and though thunder tightened the muscles in his shoulders, he no longer reacted with the fear that had sprung so unwelcomely from that first disastrous flashback. Sherlock thought that if John had been alone that first time it wouldn't have been so bad – the aftermath they had endured was _only_ because John had pointed his loaded gun at Sherlock; in John's mind danger to himself was acceptable, danger to Sherlock was not. It was not an argument that Sherlock had won; no matter how many times they had it.

Which was why, when Lestrade called for them to come to a crime scene on a night that had a thunder storm predicted, Sherlock made sure that the gun John normally carried was in Sherlock's own pocket and that John was tucked close to his side. John gave him that look – the one that said he knew exactly what Sherlock was up to and would let him get away with it up to a point – and stayed close, humouring him. The boundaries that John enforced on Sherlock's treatment of him were one of the many reasons that Sherlock loved the man – no one had ever stood up to him and made it stick before.

The crime scene was at the top of an old Edwardian tenement. It was not in good repair – one of the many older structures in the city that had no clear ownership. The scene outside on the street was the usual mess, presided over by the redoubtable Sergent Donovan. She was in a foul mood, the marks upon her person showing that she and her married lover had endured yet another falling out. It was one of the reasons that Sherlock got so cross with her – she had a quite superior mind compared to Anderson and was wasting her time and energy that could be so much better utilised on an affair that had no future.

Sherlock breezed past her as always, forgoing the usual insults in deference to the on-coming storm. He wanted John inside when the first clap hit – they'd never been outside at the start of a storm and Sherlock was unsure of the reaction it would garner from his John. The doctor was the best thing Sherlock had – better even than the Strad – and Sherlock took the best care he knew how of him as a result.

"The crime scene is on the top floor, John," Sherlock murmured, and John nodded. Behind them, Sally was complaining that John wasn't listening to her suggestions for a hobby – back to that irritating line of argument again – as they climbed the stairs. Part of Sherlock was pleased to note that the thigh once damaged in Afghanistan wasn't impeding his doctor's stride as they climbed the stairs.

One floor before they reached the crime scene Sherlock spotted an unusual scuff mark in the dust to the side of the staircase and stepped aside to look at it. As he passed, John rolled his eyes at Sherlock, his expression annoyed as Sally carped at him from behind, her volume and tone becoming steadily more annoying. It only took a moment to deduce from the scuff make that the ever incompetent Anderson had tripped over a loose shoelace and paused to tighten it, and then Sherlock was back on the stairs, taking them quickly enough to catch up just as John stepped off the last stair and greeted Lestrade with a patient hello.

"You know, just because you live with the Freak, doesn't mean you have to be rude!" Sally snapped and reached out her right hand to grab John's shoulder.

It was the Wrong Shoulder. Even as Sherlock sped up to reach her before she could touch his lover, she latched on and _squeezed_.

On reflection after the incident, Sherlock thought that they still would have avoided the worst of it if things had stopped there. Unfortunately events conspired against them. Just as Sherlock reached them, John made a noise of pain, his knees beginning to buckle. Sherlock's fingers closed on Donovan's collar just as the storm broke outside, an enormous clap of thunder accompanied by the usual flash of light, shaking the half ruined house.

Sherlock had Donovan off John and flung to one side in a moment, even as John shouted to them all, diving for the flimsy safety of the doorway.

"Get down!" the pained command rang through the upper floor of the rickety building even as John took cover. Anderson stuck his head out even as Lestrade headed for them, laughing at John's expression.

"It's just thunder, Watson," Anderson sniggered, but Lestrade at least realised that something was wrong and gestured sharply for everyone to be quiet.

"You can't just…" Donovan began to protest, but was interrupted by Lestrade. In a small corner of his mind, Sherlock made a mental note to treat the DI a little better in the future, even as he crouched down and joined John in the doorway.

His lover was clutching his shoulder, breathing in short, sharp gasps. He was too pale and cold sweat stood on his face. His left arm hung useless at his side, but that could be a function of the flashback instead of injury.

"What?" Anderson asked in a quieter tone, displaying an unusual amount of astuteness for once in his life.

"It's a flash back," Lestrade sounded grim, "He's had one before. He told me about it."

"John," Sherlock murmured, "Can you hear me?"

"I'm shot," John's voice was tight, agonised, "Snipers!"

"No John," Sherlock murmured, "It was Donovan. She grabbed you from behind and injured your shoulder. You're here in London John. You're here with me. Donovan grabbed your old wound just as the storm broke. We're all quite safe, I promise, my heart. Just breathe."

"Sh-sherlock?" the voice was fainter, more coherent, though no less in pain. Sally Donovan's name went up on Sherlock's list of people to deal with, just because of the shame that was now dawning in John's eyes.

"It's alright, my own," Sherlock murmured, "I'll take care of you."

John shuddered, biting back a pained sound that wanted to break free.

"John," Lestrade squatted down opposite them. He'd taken his coat off and was extending it towards them cautiously. Sherlock took it with a small nod, wrapping it backwards over John so it covered his strong shoulder and chest. The hand gripping his shoulder was white knuckled and the pain was not diminishing – something that made Sherlock very anxious.

"Hurts," that small word, choked out with such pain, twisted Sherlock's heart. He reached out and rubbed a thumb over John's temple, letting the touch soothe them both for a moment. The hand clutching the once wounded shoulder eased its grip slightly and Sherlock shifted closer, keeping the gentle touch up.

"Anderson, run down to my car – in the trunk there's a first aid kit stocked with some of those chemical heat packs," Lestrade ordered quietly, "Donovan get out of my sight – I want you out on the street managing the scene there."

Both officers vanished. Sherlock took the opportunity to slide even closer, fitting himself around John like a puzzle piece locking together. One hand remained at John's temple, the other came up to cover the hand that clutched so desperately at the non-existent wound. He didn't put any pressure on it, just let his hand warm the cold skin there, let his presence soothe as John fought his way back to the present; fought his way back to the life they had built together here in London.

This was incredibly hard – Sherlock was used to leaping into a problem and solving it with the force of his brain and his wits and his fists at times. Waiting for John to find his way back alone, knowing that he'd be coming back to pain and shame was the worst torture that Sherlock could conceive of.

Anderson arrived with a clatter, the heat pack in his hands. For the second time today – John would have to put it on his blog – Anderson showed unusual compassion and intelligence and simply handed the packs over to Lestrade before disappearing downstairs again. Sherlock noticed with the small amount of brain power that he could spare from John that the DI was crushing the packs to activate them. There was no judgement in Lestrade's face, just calm and concern as he worked to comfort a friend.

"Sherlock," John breathed, his muscles relaxing just enough for Sherlock to slip the waiting heat packs under his hand, soothing the memory of pain a little more.

"I'm here, John," Sherlock murmured, "It's alright. Donovan grabbed your shoulder as the lightning and thunder sounded. It triggered a small flashback, but you're alright now. Lestrade and I have you."

"You didn't do anything, John," Lestrade added, "You shouted for us to get to safety. Sherlock had Donovan off you in a moment and then he had you."

"Oh god," John muttered, shame still in his eyes, which were clearing more with each passing second, "I want to go home."

"We will," Sherlock promised, "Just give it a moment longer, my heart, just a moment longer, until the pain dies down some more."

"M ok," it was a lie, but a valiant one: Sherlock nodded acceptance but made no effort to move, waiting patiently for John's body to tell him it was ok – John would lie to cover what he saw was a weakness, but Sherlock knew the mans body too well to be fooled.

It was an interminable wait. Sherlock endured it as best he could, knowing that John was enduring worse. Finally the tension dropped just enough for it to be safe to move his lover – the pain had subsided enough for him to move without it being an agony, though it would take a while to fade completely. There was pain relief in the flat, as well as comfortable clothes, tea and soft, warm surfaces. He would be able to tend to John's needs, to focus properly on the most important thing in his life.

Lestrade moved to brace John's good arm, helping him upright and catching his coat as it slid off. Sherlock nodded approval as Lestrade slung the coat over his own shoulder and assisted them down the stairs. Anderson had summoned a taxi – the third sign of intelligence in a day, Sherlock would make a mark on the calendar – and Lestrade tossed the coat back over John when he was settled on the seat. Sherlock slid in close beside him, wrapping himself around John: his reward was a soft sigh and John relaxing against him, his head drooping onto Sherlock's shoulder.

"I'll come pick it up tomorrow morning," Lestrade said, "Feel better John."

There was no response, but Lestrade didn't wait for one, shutting the door carefully and turning to look over the street. As the taxi pulled away, Sherlock heard him shouting Donovan's name.

That wouldn't stop Sherlock from dishing out his own revenge at his leisure. It would wait though.

John was his priority now, even over the case that had summoned them out to the house in the first place, and that was as it should be.

END

AN – there will probably be a follow up at some point; please be patient because RL sucks…

Disclaimer – characters and setting as depicted in the BBC series are not mine. No money being made. Plot is mine.


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